Seventh Inning
by M C Pehrson
Summary: Story #55 The "Knowing" stories mentioned that young Sobek attended a baseball game with Spock's teenage son, Simon. Here is the account of what happened at the ballpark and the incident that left Sobek deeply disillusioned, setting the stage for the pivotal story that will follow.


_**Author's note: A special thanks to my friend, Carol Johnson, for her help with the ballpark realism.**_

It was a "dream come true". Was that not how the humans said it? Upon receiving permission to meet an acquaintance in New York, Sobek left his father's presence with proper decorum and consulted a datapadd in the privacy of his California bedroom. There, he was free to smile as his definition of the phrase was confirmed.

 _A dream come true: the fulfillment of a fond wish._

Not for the first time, Sobek wondered what it would be like to experience a genuine dream—in one's sleep—like so many other species. During his conversations with Spock, he had learned that the halfling sometimes dreamed when he slept. He envied Spock for that. His father Torval would disapprove of the emotion, but along with the envy there was also a deep sense of admiration for Captain Spock, hero of Starfleet. Spock, companion to Yanash when the Shiav lived. Spock, author of "Betrayal and Redemption", a book widely circulating among Vulcans and humans alike. Spock, who bravely turned from the role of informer to become an esteemed member of the Yanashite Community.

It was because of Spock that Sobek was going to become a Yanashite, the very first convert on Earth. After the Great Quake, Sobek had come to North America with his father, a geological engineer assigned by the Vulcan Academy of Science to analyze the SEW system failure. One day Sobek accompanied Torval to a work site and met a valued consultant to Starfleet…named Spock. Yes. Sobek's hero in the flesh, and it all seemed "too good to be true" (another intriguing human phrase) when the halfling took a personal interest in him.

Torval respected Spock as a scientist, and so allowed the friendship to develop on one condition. From the first, he warned Sobek against discussing matters of a religious nature. Certainly Sobek had not set out to defy his father. The change in his outlook did not happen all at once, but he soon grew fascinated with Spock's calm, measured use of emotion. And Sobek sensed in him a pleasing warmth that he had never detected in his own parents. It was this warmth, more than any talk of Yanash, which drew him.

When the time came to disclose his Yanashite leanings, Sobek stood up bravely to Torval, fully expecting censure. But to his surprise Father said, albeit regretfully, "You speak well for yourself. Truly you are becoming a man. I see now that I cannot prevent you from formulating your own beliefs, but your mother is adamantly opposed to the Yanashite movement. She will never accept your decision."

Torval knew his bondmate well. Now, remembering T'Vera's stinging condemnation, Sobek pushed the pain aside using a Vulcan technique. He had his father's support and Spock's friendship. He told himself that a young man had no need for a mother…and at fifteen he was feeling very much like a man. A man who would soon travel on his own to New York City and accompany Spock's eldest son to a major league sporting event. It was something called base ball, and Simon was an expert, having engaged in the sport when he was younger. Sobek knew that he must make a study of base ball or risk appearing ignorant before Spock's son. Settling into a chair with his Padd, he began searching the net for information.

oooo

The night of the game arrived. It was 7:02 PM New York time when Sobek stepped off the air bus with Simon. It was not yet dark as they walked side by side on an inclined sidewalk leading up to Yankee Stadium. Sobek had not expected so many people. Mesmerized by the Friday crowd, he tried to stay close to his companion, but his eyes kept drifting over the exuberant multitude. Mostly they were humans, many of which wore unusual garb. Caps seemed to be the fashion—white with NY in blue, or blue with NY in white. He wondered about the difference. There were similar varieties of T-shirts representing the Yankees, but also a sprinkling of red T-shirts representing the Boston Red Sox. It seemed to him that the word "Sox" was misspelled. Here and there a person wore baseball jerseys, most likely of their favorite player. Some had shirts with words in Standard that he had never seen before.

Getting Simon's attention, he pointed one out and asked for a clarification.

Simon gave a little laugh and said, "That word crudely describes a biological act performed in private between sexually mature humans. It's meant as an insult."

Sobek grew hot with embarrassment. Why would a human display such a private message? And in what manner would it be deemed insulting? There was a lot that he did not yet understand about human culture. He hoped to learn more at the game.

As they neared the stadium Simon came to a stop, pulled a phone from his jeans pocket, and used data mode to locate the "will call" window. Aloud he explained, "My father upgraded our nosebleed seats. He said he wanted us to get the full experience of the game."

Sobek was confused. Wondering if he should have brought a handkerchief, he asked, "Are nosebleeds considered part of the game experience?"

Simon chuckled again. "No, it means seats way up high in the stadium. These new ones are five rows behind home plate. Right down in the action."

Sobek felt glad that his opinion of Spock was confirmed by such a thoughtful act. He said, "That is very kind of your father."

More signs of Spock's kindness awaited them at the "will call" window. After confirming the new seating arrangement, the female clerk handed Simon a digital card and said, "Here, your father bought this for you. He said, and I quote, 'These credits should be sufficient to purchase enough stadium fare to satisfy the appetites of two teenage boys.'" She laughed. "Who is he, some college professor?"

Simon smiled back at her. "Well, yes, he actually has done some teaching at Starfleet Academy." He waved the card in the air and said, "Thanks!"

Then they were on the move again. Keeping pace, Sobek said, "Your father has also taught the Yanashites on Mount Seleya. Why did you not tell her that?"

Simon failed to answer the question. "Gotta hurry," he said. "We only have about twenty minutes to find our seats."

They came to a gate where a ticket taker scanned Simon's phone, gave a nod, and offered helpful directions to their seats. Then they entered a very crowded concourse. Sobek was fascinated by the various concessions and souvenir stands, but Simon rushed him along. As they continued on their way, Sobek noticed some of the humans behaving rather erratically.

Tugging at Simon's jacket, he said, "Why are they being so loud? And I think I am hearing that word—the same one I saw earlier that refers to…" He could not say it.

Simon glanced at the unruly group. "They've been drinking too many alcoholic beverages, but some people use that word even when they're not buzzed."

Sobek puzzled over the term "buzzed", but said nothing.

At last they entered the enormous ballpark and settled into their cushioned seats. The outdoor lights had been turned on. Loud music was playing, the lyrics of which referred to a "broken heart". It seemed more suited to a hospital setting than a ballpark. As they awaited the start of the game, Simon pointed out items of interest. There was so much sensory stimulation that Sobek found it difficult to contain his excitement. The "outfield" was very ascetically pleasing; he liked how the careful clipping of the grass created a precise two-toned diamond pattern. Up high beyond "center field" there was a "scoreboard" 55 feet long. According to Simon, it would display the official time and the "runs" for each "inning", as well as each team's total of "hits" and "errors". Next to the scoreboard was a jumbo video screen for displaying "instant replays" or the antics of fans. Along the upper ledges of the stadium, 3-D signs advertised everything from the best brand of beer to the latest model of skimmer.

Studying one particular advertisement, Sobek nudged Simon with his elbow. "Is that not the same model of skimmer your father owns? His is also red with racing stripes."

Simon's smile was back as he read, "The sleek and sexy Mustang 500—the skimmer for the man on the go."

In front of the red skimmer, a pair of voluptuous women attached themselves to the arms of a tall, attractive man.

Simon's human-looking eyebrow rose as he studied the image. "Same model, but his is a lot older. He bought the skimmer because of its safety ratings and the way it handles…not because of the way the chicks handle _him."_ Then he laughed out loud.

"Chicks?" Sobek questioned. "Newly hatched chickens? I do not understand."

"Never mind," Simon said, rising to his feet. "It's time for the national anthem."

When the singing was over, the first inning began. A Red Sox player came up to bat. He did not seem at all perturbed by outbursts of rude noises from the Yankee "faithful". He hit a single pass to the center fielder. Fortunately for the Yankee faithful, the next three batters produced outs. And so ended the "top of the first inning".

The Red Sox "took to the field" and a voice on a loudspeaker announced, "Now coming to bat for the Yankees, a direct descendant of Derrick Jeeter. Ladies and gentlemen, Tony Jeeter."

Jeeter swung hard at the ball. Just like his ancestor, he hit one "out of the park". A cry went up from the spectators and every Yankee fan rose to his feet. Sobek followed suit. As he sat back down he became aware of an elbow touching his left arm. Turning, he found an attractive young lady of perhaps twenty, but it was hard for him to judge the age of humans. Her hair was as dark as his own. He wondered about the color of her eyes, but he could not see them because they were focused forward on the game. Overhearing bits of conversation, he realized that she and her female companions were students at Fordham University.

Suddenly she turned her head and looked straight at him. Her eyes were very blue. Awkwardly he withdrew his arm and returned his attention to the game.

There were players on two bases when he felt a tapping on his shoulder and looked toward the girl again.

Her full lips curved upward as she said, "I couldn't help but notice your ears. You're Vulcan, aren't you?"

With his mouth feeling rather dry, he replied, "Yes."

She smiled at him in a strange way. "Oh, I think Vulcans are so…" But she did not finish the sentence.

Sobek waited politely and when she made no further comment, he attempted to refocus his attention on the game. It was the middle of the second inning. Boston had just tied the score at Boston 2 and New York 2.

Sobek faced Simon. He was only starting to learn the use of contractions and he laboriously practiced the odd form of grammar as he told him, "I am…I'm truly finding this game enjoyable. It is…it's not as simple as I first believed. Pitchers need to know which pitch is best for each individual batter. For example, Jeeter can hit a curve ball but can he also hit a...I believe the term is 'knuckle ball'? The runners need to gamble on whether to…ah...steal base. It all requires a great deal of mental as well as athletic skill." He permitted himself a brief smile. "Thank you for inviting me along."

Simon smiled back at him and asked, "Are you hungry?"

"Yes, and thirsty too," Sobek admitted.

"Then let's give you the full ballpark experience," Simon said, consulting his phone. He ordered 'Nathan mustard dogs' and some form of unsugared soda.

Growing very uneasy, Sobek said, "Dogs? Simon, I know that a Yanashite can eat meat, but I thought canine flesh was illegal here. I am…I'm sure it would not be permissible to consume an illegal product." The truth was, he had not yet eaten meat of any kind. But he was very interested.

"These are all beef dogs," Simon said, adding to his confusion. Then Simon patiently explained, "Hot dogs aren't made out of dogs."

It made no sense at all to Sobek. What logic was there in calling a cow product 'dog' meat? Then a "runner" delivered their food and Sobek stopped puzzling over the matter as he studied the advertising on his snuggly wrapped snack. An image of his father flashed into his mind. But had not Father said that he had a right to form his own beliefs? Yanash ate meat and Sobek was on his way to becoming a Yanashite.

The game temporarily forgotten, Sobek drank some of his beverage through a straw while he continued eyeing the "hot dog". The "diet grape" was sweet and fruity and its bubbles stung his tongue in a manner that was not altogether unpleasant.

"Eat it while it's hot," Simon urged.

Reaching a decision, Sobek peeled back the wrapper and found a long, tube-like substance topped with yellow paste and surrounded by white bread. Strange indeed, but it smelled good. Boldly he followed Simon's lead, raised the food to his mouth and took a bite from one end.

His taste receptors fairly exploded with impressions. He had eaten such bread in the past, but here was something more. Warm and flavorful, tender and juicy—one sample and every cell of his body seemed to cry out in celebration. _So this was meat._ Even the fiery yellow condiment could not dim its appeal. Eyes wide open, he bit into the hot dog a second time, and then again and again.

He became aware of Simon watching him with some amusement. Then Simon said, "Want another?"

Sobek looked down at the empty wrapper. Had he already consumed it all? There was no stopping the flow of words. "Oh yes, please. And hold the mustard." Simon's amusement grew and Sobek asked, "Did I say that correctly?"

"Like a pro," Simon said, and ordered more food.

The fourth inning was in progress when Sobek became aware that certain people seated to their rear were becoming much too boisterous. At about that same time, the young lady beside him looked at the crumpled wrappers in his lap and observed, "You ate meat. I thought Vulcans were strict vegetarians."

"I am Yanashite," he replied, though it was not…quite…technically true. As an inquirer into the faith, he had not yet undergone the sacramental rite of initiation using water from Mount Seleya.

"Oh!" She had heard of them and began to engage Sobek in conversation about the growing Vulcan sect.

Suddenly Simon leaped up and there was much cheering.

The announcer boomed, "Back…back…back…and _it's outa here!"_

Sobek realized that he had missed an exciting play, but he did not regret it. Standing, he read the display boards. Another run for the home team.

Sobek's attention was back on the game. It was the fifth inning and the Yankees were at bat. The next batter got into his "stance". A pitch was thrown, a nice fast ball just outside the "plate". The bat connected with the ball. The ball sailed past the pitcher and hit the ground before the infielder could catch it. Hurriedly the infielder scooped it up, then threw hard to the first baseman. The first baseman tagged the runner.

Suddenly a problem came to light, for the first base umpire called the runner "safe". Sobek leaned forward, intent on the action, as the Red Sox manager ran onto the field. The Yankee faithful behaved rudely toward him. The manager stood inches from the "ump" and loudly insisted that the runner was out. When the first base ump shook his head in disagreement, the manager extended a middle finger skyward and kicked dirt onto the ump's pants. At that, the ump raised his thumb in a gesture of his own and yelled, "You are outta here!" Looking very dissatisfied, the manager nevertheless obeyed the command. The Yankee fans cheered loudly as he headed back to the "dugout".

Sobek's brows rose into his bangs. Suddenly he was not sure if he liked baseball, after all. "Simon, many people here are displaying unkind behavior."

Simon nodded without looking at him. "Yeah. Humans behaving badly."

It was then that Sobek thought he heard someone from the stands shout, "Hey, Vulcan! Hey, little Yashie!"

That was all, and perhaps he had heard incorrectly, but a little knot of tension formed in his well-fed stomach and he set his popcorn aside.

During the sixth inning Sobek spied a small white projectile sailing from a tier behind them. Here and there another one followed, soaring like birds as they descended.

Sobek leaned over and nudged Simon. "What are those things falling from the sky?"

"Paper airplanes," Simon replied, eyes fixed upon the baseball field.

 _Air planes._ Crafted from paper? He was about to formulate another question when one such creation arced directly into his lap. From somewhere behind came loud laughter and obscenities. Intensely curious, Sobek picked up the "paper air plane", studied its manner of construction, and began to carefully disassemble the folds. By doing so, he discovered that the paper was not blank. After smoothing the single sheet flat, he turned the printing upright and read.

 **TAKE A CUE FROM US**

 **It's high time to** **C** **lean** **U** **p** **E** **arth.**

 **Thanks to Vulcans and their over-engineered**

 **SEW system, San Francisco lies in ruin.**

 **Countless lives are in ruin from Saurian**

 **drugs. Now we see Yanashites moving into our**

 **neighborhoods and taking over high-paying jobs.**

 **What next?**

 **Let's put the trash out.**

 **Help us Clean Up Earth**

 **Go to CUE-Earth4Earth-now**

Sobek felt sick. He had seen news reports about the anti-alien organization and it troubled him to think that there were sympathizers here. Getting Simon's attention, he passed the CUE paper to him. Simon looked very grim as he read it. On the field there was a sudden loud crack. A Yankee batter had connected with the ball, and the crowd roared. Simon met Sobek's eyes, crumped the paper, and let it drop.

At the middle of the seventh inning, the game paused. People got up and stretched; some left their seats while the loudspeakers blared a traditional song entitled "Take Me Out to the Ballgame". It was getting cold. Sobek zipped up his coat and followed Simon into the aisle. As he was looking at the song verses displayed on the jumbo screen, someone put a hand on his back and shoved him. He jostled into Simon, caught himself, and turned around.

Three large human males confronted him. They reeked of beer.

"Hey Yashie," sneered one of them, a CUE shirt evident beneath his open jacket. "What the frickin' hell are you doing here with regular people?" His fierce eyes swung toward Simon. "And will you look at the little Vulcan lover!"

Simon raised his arms in a conciliatory gesture and backed away. "Hey, brother, let's not have any trouble…"

 _Brother?_ Sobek was astonished by Simon's use of the term, but there was no time to consider its implications.

The man with highly developed muscles crowded closer to him and said, "Look at those cute pointy ears. We saw you sneaking those hot dogs, Yashie. We saw you messing around with that pretty girl." Reaching out with a finger, he poked Sobek hard on the chest.

Sobek experienced an unpleasant surge of anger and fright. The anger made him say, "Do not touch me!"

The man leaned in even closer. "What, Yashie? What did you say? I can't hear you with my little round ears. Speak up, you frickin'-Yashie-Vulcan-shit."

Sobek thought that Simon would step forward in his defense, in defense of the Yanashite Community, in defense of his own Vulcan bloodline. But glancing at his companion, he saw only fear in Simon's eyes. Perhaps that, more than the human's insults, heated Sobek's temper. Without relaying his intent, he launched into a swift Asumi kick that sank deep into the human's soft belly.

His tormentor's eyes opened wide as he staggered back into his companions. Then all three rushed Sobek, fists swinging. It happened very fast. Then a whistle was blowing and the attackers fled.

Uniformed members of Stadium Security helped Sobek to his feet and inquired about his condition. Had they known that he struck the first blow, they might have detained him. But Sobek made no mention of that fact, and wiping the blood from his lip, headed out of the stadium. There was a painful fury inside that made him stride quickly, but by running Simon managed to catch up.

They were entering the concourse. Hurrying alongside, Simon said, "Sobek…Sobek, wait."

Not even slowing, Sobek seethed, "You did _nothing!_ You called him a _brother!"_

"I _wanted_ to help you," Simon said in his defense. "But…but my _hands_." He held them out in plain view. "I couldn't risk injuring my hands!"

Striding a bit faster, Sobek cast him a scornful glance. "Brave Simon. The talented violinist. Of course I understand."

In desperation Simon grabbed at Sobek's coat sleeve, forcing him to a halt. "No, listen…"

Looking upon Simon with contempt, Sobek said, "Get your damn hands off me or _I_ will break them."

Simon's arms dropped. Parting company, Sobek made his way to a New York transporter hub and beamed home.

On the West Coast, it was not yet 10:00 pm. Torval sat in the living room of their apartment and looked up from his datapadd when Sobek came through the door.

"You are back early," he observed.

As Sobek fully entered the room, there was no way to conceal his injuries. Holding very still, he strived for perfect composure as his father rose and intently studied the marks of violence on his face.

"Explain," Torval said.

Sobek had his response ready. "There was an altercation at the ballpark. It erupted in my area of the stands. Alcohol was a factor—what the humans call beer. They should not serve intoxicating beverages at sporting events."

Father stepped even closer, perhaps seeking out a scent of beer on Sobek's breath. "And you. Did you sample any beer or other beverages that could impair you? You know how refined sugar affects us."

Uneasily Sobek wondered if meat left any discernable odor. Hoping that the smell of popcorn would mask it, he replied, "No, Father. I drank nothing of that kind."

Torval accepted his words. "Are you in need of medical care?"

"No, Father."

And so the questions ended. In the bathroom, he gazed into a mirror and saw his battered face for the first time. Tomorrow the bruises would be an even deeper shade of green, but it was as nothing compared to the pain inside him. Over and over he replayed the ugly incident in his mind. Cutting words falling from human lips, hateful hands seizing him, and the impact of rock-hard fists that sent him sprawling. And all the while, Simon standing to one side, mutely watching. Calling those men _brothers._

Simon, son of Spock. A Starfleet hero had raised a coward. Was that the fruit of Yanashite beliefs? Did a slackening of emotional control lead to moral weakness? Yet now that Sobek had grown used to freer behavior, the old strictures seemed confining. What was he to do?

For now he could not bear to look upon Spock or any member of his family. Perhaps he would begin a book of his own and he would call it "Baseball and Betrayal".

oooOOooo


End file.
